


Making Up & Making Out

by openmoments



Category: Football RPF, real madrid
Genre: La Liga, M/M, RPF, Sports, boys loving boys is how i roll, football - european
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-06
Updated: 2012-01-16
Packaged: 2017-10-27 00:12:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/289433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/openmoments/pseuds/openmoments
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>"So, things worked out for you, didn't they?" "Yeah, I guess they did."</p>
          </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He moved to Spain to start new. He moved to Spain to focus. He moved to Spain for football. He did not move to Spain to fall in love.

They say German is a harsh language and Spanish the opposite, lyrical in nature. Maybe that’s true. Maybe it explains why it took him so long, longer than Sami, even, to get the words to form on his tongue. They felt too soft and smooth, not big enough to fill the space in his mouth.

“Your Spanish is getting better,” Cristiano tells him one day as they sit out on the field, partnered for stretches before practice.  
He raises his eyes from where they were focused on the wrinkle in the middle of his knee. “Oh?” is all he replies as they switch and he pushes up against Cris’s hand.  
Cris nods, smiles a little bit, “Yeah, it is. Your words are getting smoother,” and they continue stretching in silence.

He doesn’t notice he’s mumbling under his breathe, doesn’t realize he’s practicing until Cristiano comments on it, praises it, and he gets this glow in the pit of his stomach, ducks his head to hide his smile and mutters, “Thank you,” scratching the back of his head in embarrassment.

Practice is where he empties his head, works himself through his paces, pushes himself until he’s near breaking point. Where, if he misses a pass, a goal, a moment, it’s not the end of the world, he can try again, and no blood’s drawn. It’s where he strives for perfection. But he won’t be, can’t be, because perfection is already on the field, on his team. He doesn’t resent it or curse it, instead uses it as his measuring stick and seeks to learn.  
After a while, however, he notices more than the footwork, the unity between the ball and player, the unspoken conversation between Cris and the other players. He wants to learn how to have conversations with him, wants to learn how to speak his language. The thought crosses his mind, and he shakes it out, pushes his legs faster, harder, uses the burn to dispel his thoughts.

Everyone always likes praise. It’s a human need, a fact of life. Over the years there’s always been one person or another who’s praise he’s wanted over everyone else’s. The feeling lasts for a time, but soon moves to wanting to gain praise from someone else. He expects it when he moves to Spain, moves to a new team. He wants to impress, to be needed. Cris is an obvious person to want to please. He works hard for it, pushes himself until he can’t anymore, and then pushes himself some more and it’s worth it when Cris wraps his arms around him, grins that stupid slanted smile at him, pushes his hands through his hair. It’s worth every moment of aching muscle and bone deep tiredness to have those fleeting moments.

But the need to please doesn’t leave. It grows. And he should be worried, but he’s not.

“We need to get you out,” Cris tells him one night as they’re sitting in his living room, perched on couches and armrests, water bottles scattered around the room as teammates fight each other for possession of game controllers.  
He raises his eyebrows as he puts the cap back on his water bottle, swallows, “What?” It’s such a random statement and he feels like he’s walked into the middle of a conversation.  
Cris smiles from his position on the armrest, arm around the back of the couch, Kaká’s arm up against his thigh. “Out,” he repeats, smile kind though the word is teasing, “You stay in too much. Besides, how else are you going to meet someone?”  
He scratches the back of his neck as he ducks his head, “No, I’m good,” he says, looking over to where Pepe is letting out a moan of defeat as Marcelo beats him in whatever game the group has been playing. Benz nabs the controllers from Pepe’s hands and shoves him over as they restart.  
There’s a laugh and he looks up as Cris leans over and claps his hand on Kaká’s knee, “He’s good,” and Kaká smiles and looks up at him, shakes his head.  
“Not everyone’s like you,” he reminds Cris quietly and Mesut’s thankful for that, fingers running up and down the side of the water bottle he’s still holding.  
Cris shakes his head, “No, most people are like me. You’re the special one,” he tells Kaká and Mesut’s never heard that tone of voice from him before and there’s an ache somewhere on the left side of his chest and he mumbles something and joins the brawl on the couch, ends up squished next to Sami who gives him a look that he ignores, shakes away, but welcomes the warmth beside him. He’s missed it.

“You have to stop trying to impress him. You already do,” Sami tells him a few days later as he wraps an ice pack around his ankle.  
“What are you talking about?” he asks, wincing as he readjusts on the couch, places another pillow under his ankle.  
He hears a sigh of frustration and Sami’s face is suddenly all he sees as his friend leans over the armrest of the couch, hair hanging into his eyes and he brushes it away, laughing.  
Sami’s face is serious though and he stops quickly. Looks up into his best friend’s face, eyes searching each other.  
“Cris,” Sami finally says and he tries not to look away, almost succeeds, but covers it.  
“I still don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, and feels Sami’s puff of annoyed breathe on his face.  
His friend pulls away and comes around the couch, and balances on his stomach. Mesut gives a squawk of protest and Sami rolls his eyes, “I’m not even sitting on you,” and they sit in silence for a minute.  
“You have his approval, you know,” Sami tells him and he rolls his eyes.  
“I don’t want it,” he tries and Sami shakes his head.  
“You want it,” he repeats, pauses and then, “and you want more, you just don’t realize how much,” and pokes him in the stomach as he gets up, runs a hand through his hair and Mesut can hear him starting supper, singing something out of tune as he opens and closes the fridge.  
He doesn’t feel himself falling asleep but stirs when he feels Sami pick him up and carry him to his room, tuck him into bed, and the door creak behind him.

He’s benched for the first part of the game and goes stir crazy, but doesn’t let it show. When he’s finally let on, his mind narrows and focuses: ball, kick, run, move, dodge, pass, open, repeat. Cris isn’t open and he passes to Sami, who passes up to Higuan who scores and it’s not til afterwards that he sees Cris’s face. Not until after the ball’s left his feet that he sees the almost five year old look in mid pout and for the first time that he can remember, it’s not Cris he runs up to to celebrate a goal. He ends up attached to Kaká and grins, feels his mouth stretching, as Higuain ends up being bombarded with players, Cris off on the side.

It’s not like he thought that Cris was perfect. He knows he’s a drama queen, but has never seen it like this, has never seen it on the field like this.  
He normally takes his time, waits for Cris to finish, but the way he’s snarling over by his locker, fists up against the door, Kaká the only one within ten feet. He wants to get closer, wants to slide a hand up his spine, soothe the stress and anger from his shoulders, but knows, as much as he doesn’t want to, that if Kaká isn’t close, then he shouldn’t try either.  
Instead Sami wraps his arm around his head, smile bright and tugs him towards the door. “He’ll notice you, pretty boy,” he whispers into his ear and Mesut pretends to ignore him.

It’s late when he sends the text and he deliberates over the wording for way too long, and finally Sami’s the one who grabs the phone from his hands, a shocked, “Hey!” following the click of it being sent.  
“You’re such a love struck puppy,” Sami tells him as he flops on the couch. Mesut lifts his feet, places them on Sami’s lap and pokes his thigh with his toes.  
“We’re just friends,” and it doesn’t sound convincing to his own ears, but he doesn’t look at Sami when he says it.  
His friend doesn’t buy it, they know each other too well for that, “No, you’re not,” he says and there’s a pause and he feels Sami playing with the band of his right sock, “and that’s okay,” he continues, “I just don’t want you to get hurt,” and the buzzing of the phone resting on his stomach saves him from wondering too much about what Sami’s saying.

The fact that Cris said yes to a late night bite to eat shouldn’t feel as weird as it does, but he shakes it off and knocks on the door, rocks back and forth on his heels as he waits, takes a step back when the door opens and smiles when he sees Cris. The crooked smile he gets in return makes something flip under his rib cage.  
“Ready to go?” he asks, nodding towards Cris’s bare feet.  
The crooked smile stretches and Cris nods him into the house, “Just about, come on in,” and the two steps into the house shouldn’t make him feel as nervous as he does.  
He’s rocking back on his heels again, and he resists the urge to scratch the back of his head, a nervous habit he settles into whenever he’s around Cris.  
“Where do you want to go?” Cris calls from the bathroom, the words jumbled around the toothbrush in his mouth.  
“There’s a German place Sami and I found a few weeks ago,” he calls back, then toes off his shoes and makes his way to the bathroom, leans against the door jamb. He’s not one to yell if he doesn’t have to, and something about seeing Cris at home does something to him, something he still doesn’t want to admit to.  
Their eyes connect through the mirror and Cris raises his eyebrows, as if to say, “German restaurant in Spain?” and he smiles.  
“It’s good, don’t worry,” he says and his smile widens at the toothpaste foam smeared across the corner of Cris’s mouth.  
Cris spits, washes his mouth, and exits the bathroom, nudging Mesut with his shoulder as they make their way to the front door.  
“It better be good, pretty boy,” Cris says as they head out the door, “or else,” and the last words send a bit of a thrill through his stomach.

Two hours later they’re laughing as they make their way down the street to the vehicle, before Cris tugs on his arm, “Wait!”  
He stops, laughter dying on his lips, “Yeah?”  
Cris’s eyes are bright in the moonlight and he’s got a devilish look on his face, “There’s a dessert place down this block. They make the best pastries,” and Mesut bursts out laughing again.  
Cris gets this look on his face, a ridiculous confused look on his face, a little cocky, some mischief lurking in all the little corners, “What?”  
He shakes his head, “You and pastries? Really?”  
“Yeah,” he pauses for a moment as he steers them down the block, “My mom was a great baker,” he explains, there’s a pause then, “she’d bake for all the big holidays, and my friends would always come over because they knew she’d have something cooling on the counter.”  
He doesn’t say anything, just walks in silence, loving the words coming out of his mouth, that he didn’t have to prod it all out.  
“What about you?” Cris asks, hands shoved into his pockets, knocks their shoulders together, “Anything to share?”  
Mesut shrugs, “My mother’s amazing. She was at every one of my football games as I was growing up. All the ones when I was little, anyways. And she,” here he stops for a moment, something building in his throat and he pauses, can feel Cris just waiting, “she’d send me letters every month.”  
“Every month?” Cris asked.  
He nodded, “Yeah, every month, like clockwork. It made moving easier, you know?” and he can see Cris nod from the corner of his eye.  
“Does she still do that?” Cris asks as he opens the door for them, ushers him into the bakery and steers him up to the glass with all the pastries behind them.  
“Yeah, she does. Every month,” he tells him, as he stares into the creamy filling of a tart.  
He can feel Cris’s hand on the back of his neck, “Really? That’s adorable,” Cris says and he can hear the smile in his voice.  
“Yeah. We call every week and my dad e-mails me regularly, but,” and he stops for a moment, and Cris prompts him, “But?”  
“But the letters from my mom are what I look forward to every month,” he finishes as he points to a pastry and watches as a server fishes it out of the glass case.  
There’s a silence as Cris points to the dessert he wants and they carry them out of the shop, walking further down the street, silence between them and for once Mesut doesn’t want to ruin it with words.

He drops Cris off at his house, or tries to. Somewhere between the walk and driving home, Mesut’s accepted that he’s fallen. He didn’t come to Spain to fall in love, but he’s realizing that he is and he doesn’t want to say the wrong thing, but he can’t help smiling and Cris keeps asking him things about his childhood and he can’t stop talking, laughed when Cris got cream filling stuck on his top lip and dared to stand close enough to wipe it off with his finger and Cris got this look in his eye. He stopped for a moment, thought he’d gone too far and then Cris had stepped up close and licked it off his finger and he’d struggled to focus on walking.

“We have practice tomorrow,” he states for the third time and Cris smiles from where he’s propped up against the window of his car.  
“I know, but I’m having a lot of fun getting to know you,” and he wants to lean over the console and kiss him, but he doesn’t, just focuses on his hands on the wheel.  
“But you’re right,” Cris admits as he sits up, “I should head inside,” and with that he’s out of the car, waves goodnight before jogging up to his door and letting himself in.

When he enters the locker room for practice the next morning, his face has almost been split in two with the ridiculous smile that’s been plastered on his face and Sami’s been teasing him about it since they woke up this morning.  
“Dear god, you fell head over heels, didn’t you?” Sami asked earlier, and sighed dramatically as he stuck the dishes in the sink, “Now I’m not going to hear anything but, ‘Oh he’s so wonderful!’ and ‘He’s so strong’ and ‘I just want him to fuck me’,” he teased, voice raising in pitch, imitating Mesut’s voice.  
He’d have been mad but he was so happy, laughing so hard he almost fell off his chair, “I do not sound like that!” was the only thing he’d managed to protest as he gasped for air.  
Sami had raised his eyebrows, paused, “Pretty boy, that’s what you think,” and had ducked into the bathroom before Mesut could find anything to throw at him.  
Now he can hear the few whispers spreading through the locker room, but he just shrugs it off and someone throws a stray football at his head.  
“Did someone get lucky last night?” he hears someone, he thinks Marcello, call from behind him and the grin he has on his face just gets larger, but he’s facing his locker and no one sees it.  
He doesn’t know what to say, exactly, but goes with saying nothing and he can feel Sami getting ready to say something but then he hears a painfully familiar voice, with an unfamiliar bit of iron strung in it, rumble, “Our pretty boy was the luckiest of anyone last night, from what I hear,” and it’s followed by catcalls and slaps on his back and all of a sudden he’s more confused than he’s ever been before.  
He looks up and can’t keep the questioning look off his face. His eyes collide with Cris’s, who just winks, though his eyes are cloudy, not dancing, not like he’s gotten used to. Taking a quick inventory of the room, he sees Kaká on the opposite site, grey clouds hanging over his head and he darts his eyes back to Cris, who’s smile’s completely faded now, eyes focused on his locker door before he slams it shut, makes his way out, ruffling his hair as he goes by.  
There’s a wink and it should make him feel warm but instead he feels like he should throw up and Sami grabs his shoulders, “Shake it off, Mesut, shake it off. You’re better than that. Go out on that field and show him,” and he’s glad someone’s got his back.

He can’t remember the last time he’s been this sore after a practice. He aches in places he didn’t know he had (and that’s after aching in places he didn’t know he had for years), even his eyelids are sore and he’s dripping, but he’s happy. Or as close as he figures he’ll get at this point.  
He barely feels the claps on his back and the ruffles of his hair as his teammates make their way by. Cris walks by him completely and Kaká, who’s been heartbreakingly nice (because he’s Kaká) only smiles weakly and nods as he makes his way along and Mesut can read the flecks of pain in his eyes as well.  
Sami’s ridiculously large smile takes up the view in front of him, all flashing teeth and twinkling eyes and the whispered, “God, you showed him,” makes him chuckle  
tiredly and he lets himself be guided back to the locker room, Sami’s arm locked around the back of his neck.

He’s thisclose to sleep when his phone vibrates and he ignores it, but the insistent vibrating makes him flail around for his phone, flips it open, “M’ello?” and is greeted with silent breathing on the other end before, “I’m outside. Come out?” and he doesn’t know how to say no, even when he’s bone deep tired, so he does. “Two minutes,” he mumbles, lays in bed for one before grabbing the sweats he came home in and an old faded tee shirt from a chair, his jacket from the closet as he slips on an old pair of shoes.  
He gets in the car and nothing’s said, Cris just drives off. The car’s silent and he’s too tired to ask where they’re going, too worried to slump up against the window and drift off to sleep, so he just hunches down in his seat, stares out the window as they drive, directionless.  
Or so he thinks, but by now he shouldn’t be surprised when it turns out that Cris has a plan, of some sort, at least, and should be even less surprised that they end up at an old football pitch. Cris just shifts the car into park and they sit there. He doesn’t know what to say, so doesn’t say anything and it’s silent. He watches the minutes slip by on the clock and soon it’s been half an hour and nothing’s been said, they’re just staring out the window.  
He’s about to say something, because now he’s wide awake and painfully tired, his senses going into overdrive, opens his mouth, but Cris beats him to it, staring out the window unseeingly and sends his heart pummeling in the direction of his stomach, “He doesn’t love me.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "So, things worked out for you, didn't they?" "Yeah, I guess they did."

He sleeps until noon and is woken up by the pounding on his door, Sami asking if he’s awake and he manages to mumble an answer out and then sticks his head under his pillows.

 

Finally, he snags his phone from his bedside table, blearily looks through the messages. Three from Sami, wondering why he’d left, when he’d be back, if he was still alive (he smiles at that one), two from Cris, wondering if he’s up for lunch, if they’re still friends (he ignores the pang there), and one from Sergio wondering if he’s still up for the party planned at his place in the evening.

 

He ignores them all, groans, tosses the phone and swears he’s never leaving the bed. That is until his door smacks against the wall, the smell of breakfast (lunch?) wafts in and then there’s suddenly the sound of feet, there’s a body on his bed, the springs creaking and he gives out an, “Oof!” as a body lands on his, his worn out muscles protesting way too much as the pillow’s pulled off his face, Cris’s way too eager, blinding smile is in his vision and he lets out a groan, the events of the night before crashing back into memory.

 

(His heart thudding against his ribs so hard he can hear it in his ears (kind of like when he’s playing football but not in a good way like that is) and Cris’s face is drawn, lines drawn in scrawls across his forehead and he wants to soothe and smooth but the words keep ringing in his ears, “He doesn’t love me,” and how much pain’s behind them.

 

He swallows, tries, fails, swallows again, pauses, tries again, “Who?” and it comes out a whisper and he’s ashamed because that should give him away, but Cris is too focused on his own breaking heart to notice the one slowly falling apart next to him.

 

It takes a few minutes and he wonders if Cris has even heard him but he doesn’t think he has the heart (the pieces are now lying on the floor of his ribcage, he can feel all the sharp edges) to ask again, so he just waits.

 

“Kaká,” and it’s said slowly, quietly, tiredly, and he feels stupid because he should have known, how could he not? but he doesn’t know what to say, so he doesn’t say anything and they sit there and he wants to find the words but, “If he doesn’t love you, he’s missing out on something amazing,” is laughable and would only add insult to injury, so he doesn’t, he says nothing, sits in silence, staring at the football pitch and waits. (That’s all he ever seems to do, now.))

 

Now he wants to know why Cris is all a bundle of smiles and sunshine while he just wants to lay in bed for weeks on end, but that clearly won’t happen, so he lets himself be dragged out of the house after Cris has thrown clothes at him, his eyes still sleepily half shut, Sami standing awkwardly in the kitchen, this unreadable look on his face and Mesut just shrugs his way after he receives a confused but good luck smile from his friend. He doesn’t know what he’d do without him.

 

The next few weeks can only be described as emotional hell. He knows that it’s not in Cris’s nature to hurt people, as much as anyone outside might think he’s an absolute bastard; he’s not. He wants to believe that he doesn’t know what he’s doing. That Cris doesn’t realize how much he’s being hurt.

 

Sami knows, though.

 

Sami knows how much he wants to turn, run, walk, crawl away, but isn’t allowed to. How much he wants to stay in bed and never get up. How much he wants to give up.

 

Like now, “Hey pretty boy,” Sami greets, ducks his head under Mesut’s face, looks into his eyes, bats his eyelashes and he laughs. Tired and a little sad, but he laughs.

 

“How are you?” he asks, and Mesut knows he could lie, possibly get away with it, but he’d feel sick about it, because he never lies to Sami.

 

The pause is long enough and Sami understands that he can’t find the words so he does what he knows is needed and says nothing and is just there, a presence as they sit, watch TV, the Spanish flowing in and through and over them and he wonders if they’re even watching anymore, if they’re not just sitting there, with each other.

 

It takes awhile before he notices the change, and it’s not him who points it out. Benz notices it, points it out bluntly, just a question he wants an answer to, “You mad at Cris?” and he reels back because ‘mad’ never popped up into the definition of his feelings and he raises his eyebrows and Benz lets out a puff of air, slightly frustrated.

 

The moment drags out a moment before Benz starts again, “Look, it’s none of my business, but we need you,” he says and Mesut’s eyebrows rise again, higher, because Benz doesn’t DO feelings, but Benz plows on, “I mean that, Mesut, I really do. We need you and you’re just...you’re not here,” and he knows it’s true. He’s warmed the bench far too many minutes out of games lately and he’s trying, he is, but he doesn’t know how these things work (emotions, feelings, hearts) and it’s messing his feet up and he just trips.

 

His thoughts are interrupted by, “...and we know something’s up with Kaká too and...,” here Benz trails off, bites his lip as if he’s said too much and Mesut nods, smiles, “I’m working on it. We’re here, we’re a team,” and he knows that they both know he’s really just trying to reassure himself.

 

That’s when he starts looking at himself in the mirror a little differently, step back, reassess, “You can do this,” forehead up against the mirror, “No you can’t,” walk out, try again tomorrow.

 

“Mesut! Mesut!” and there’s a familiar voice and his heart jumps back up from its broken mess among his ribs before falling back down, the pieces smaller this time around.

 

He slows down, doesn’t stop, let’s Cris catch up, hands in his hair, on his shoulder, touching, touching, touching, constantly touching and the pieces sliver off even more but he wants it so much, leans back into the touch for a millisecond before snapping back and going cold.

 

“Yeah?” he asks hard and harsh, brusque and Cris’s eyes grow question marks, but he ignores them because he can’t, he can’t do this with emotion so he looks over his shoulder instead because Cris has eyes that don’t lie, can’t lie, and that’s what he loves about them. About him.

 

“I haven’t seen you in ages, pretty boy,” and the nickname makes him wince, kick to the stomach, and he wants to know how Cris can’t know (but Gods, if he did...and he doesn’t want to think about it) so just answers instead.

 

“We see each other every day,” and he tries to put in some laugh, some joke, some piece of ‘we’re still friends’ but it doesn’t come out sounding right and he winces at the failed attempt.

 

Now Cris is scuffing his toe into the cement of the parking lot and he doesn’t know when Cris has ever been...nervous? before, but this is new, and it melts the broken pieces of his hearts and he softens and smiles, a real smile, adds, “But I know, we need to do something sometime,” and he knows this won’t end well and Sami’ll watch him leave with worried eyes.

 

But Cris’s smile makes it all worth it and his smile gets bigger and he feels it reach his eyes and barely hears himself agreeing to go out for dinner over the weekend. He remembers, because whatever airy castle he’s built up crashes when Cris’s face falls, when he quickly says good bye and almost runs to his car, starts it up, pulls out of the parking lot, wheels screeching in his wake.

 

He’s confused until Kaká’s at his shoulder, a sad broken smile on his face, hands stuffed in his pockets, “I guess he’s still hurt,” and Mesut chokes out a, “Yeah, it’ll take longer than we thought,” and they stand there in silence, the screech still echoing in their ears.

 

“This can’t go on!” Sami tells him and he winces because Sami never really gets mad, but he knows he’s right, knows this has gone on for a ridiculous length of time, that he needs to get his head back into football space because Mou keeps giving him these looks, shaking his head, and his ass has been on benches way too long this season. He’s got the splinters to prove it.

 

“You don’t think I don’t know that?” he replies and he feels bad because the words had a jagged edge to them and out of anyone, Sami doesn’t deserve that and he adds, “I’m sorry, I’m not mad at you,” to help soothe the wounds.

 

Sami smiles, tired, eyes drooping a bit at the corner, “I know, Mesut, I know,” and all of a sudden he feels a huge surge of emotion, appreciation and grins, “When’s the last time we hung out?” he asks and Sami gets this odd look on his face, half smile, half question.

 

“Why?” and he wants to cry because they shouldn’t be questioning each other like this and he promises himself he won’t take Sami for granted (when did that start to begin with?).

 

“Because,” he starts, crawls onto the couch and Sami pulls his head down onto his lap and he looks up at the ceiling, Sami’s hand in his hair, “we haven’t really seen each other beyond practice,” and he can feel Sami wanting to interrupt but he heads him off, hand in the air, pointer finger up, “even though we live with each other,” he adds, pauses for a moment, feels Sami’s thumb massaging at his temple, and here he shrugs, can’t find the words, doesn’t know how to explain what he’s trying to say, but tries anyway, starts over, “We need to get out of the house, go out,” it’s simple, effective and he tilts his head back, sees Sami smile.

 

“I agree.”

 

They go out for supper and it’s nice. It’s not like when he and Cris went out, it’s calmer and he’s not worried about saying the wrong thing because it’s Sami and he laughs and laughs and laughs and on their way to the car, Sami wraps his arm around his neck and he burrows in close, all up next to the warmth, and he’s missed this because this is what they do, who they are and it feels right.

 

It’s a kick in the gut when he goes to practice the next day and Cris and Kaká are all over each other, arms around shoulders, heads bent together coming up through the parking lot and he can hear Sami swear next to him.

 

He looks over, a little half smile on his face, “What?”

 

Sami raises his eyebrows and Mesut knows he’s thinking that there’s going to be another roller coaster ride and he doesn’t want to admit it, but he’s probably right.

 

“I’ll be fine,” he tries and Sami just snorts, shakes his head and exits the car.

 

The thing is, he wants to be alright, because that’s just Cris: a ping pong ball back and forth between fraying hearts and he doesn’t say he can blame him because, fuck, he’s Cristiano Ronaldo and he thinks he’s God’s gift to human kind (football kind) and maybe he’s not, maybe he’s just God’s gift to Mesut (but what kind of thought is that to have?) so he just shakes his head and gets out of the car.

 

Mou doesn’t even have to tell him he’s not starting the next game after practice ends.

 

But he already promised Cris that they’d go out for supper. And he wants to fake sick, Sami tells him he should, that he could pull it off because he looks white and about ready to throw up but something inside him tells him not to, to go. So he does

 

Cris pulls up and he’s ready and waiting (and has been for ages. Sami told him three times to quit pacing and had to go to his room because he was making him sea sick.), and he smiles but he knows that instead of looking happy he looks scared and figures he should have called sick, postponed it, but he’s here now so might as well make the best of it.

 

The drive to the restaurant is awkward and he just stares out the window at Madrid at night and everyone looks so happy out there on the street and he wants....God he wants.

 

Cris asks him questions, not seeming to notice that he’s not quite there, hands drumming along with the beat of the music on the steering wheel, asking him questions, “Any plans for the holidays?” “Anyone in your life? “Still taking Spanish lessons?” and he gives monosyllabic answers and doesn’t feel tired as much as sick and presses his forehead against the glass.

 

Cris doesn’t notice.

 

Happy Cris is hard to be mad at, hard to stay away from, because he wants everyone around him to be as happy as he is. Mesut tries, he tries to stay away. Goes to practice and goes home. Lives in an up in the air headspace (and he’s still not starting) and Sami’s doing his best, oh Sami.

 

At least, he tries. He tries hard. But somewhere after the third day of leaving practice early, Sergio bars him from his car, steals his keys from his jacket pocket, and he can’t stay mad at Sergio, laughs as he playfully lunges for his keys, misses by fingertips as they’re tossed to Benz, tossed to Marcelo, Sami, who dangles them, laughs, big and loud and happy, and that makes Mesut happy so he doesn’t take them from his offered palm and watches as they soar through the air to Iker who lazily reaches out but is intercepted by Cris and suddenly his hearing goes static-y and his vision goes blurry as everyone cat calls and Iker tackles Cris and they push each other up against the lockers until they’re out of breathe and laughing, slapping each other on the back.

 

Cris then dangles his keys, jumps on the bench and does a celebratory dance, is greeted with more cat calls, boos, and everyone gets back to getting changed and Cris jumps down, slips next to Mesut and says, “Guess you’re with me, then,” and he smiles, resists the urge to scream into his locker.

 

They go out and he’s missed it, missed them. He knows Sami does, too, and watches as he laughs, big and loud at something Sergio says and then Kaká’s next to him and he can’t think of an excuse but moves to get up anyways, feels the hand on his arm and looks down and sits down at its request.

 

They’re silent as the sound around them swells, dies, swells again, overflows with laughter and starts over. He plays with the lip of his glass and he realizes Kaká’s tapping some unintelligible beat on the table in front of them and now he wants to know what he has to say and he feels eyes on him and looks up and Cris is in the middle of the group, looking over at them, smile almost dead on his lips as his eyes ask so many questions and Mesut knows he can’t answer them.

 

Kaká’s seen him too and says quietly, “He’s worried about you, you know,” and he laughs drily but Kaká’s, “He really does,” has too much emotion in it to be ignored and Mesut has no hard feelings against him.

 

He looks over and smiles quietly, “He really cares about you,” and Kaká’s silent for a moment before looking back up to Cris, who’s back is now turned to them, hands waving as he tells some story or another.

 

“He does,” he agrees and Mesut doesn’t know what else he would have expected to say. To deny it would be to lie.

 

He can feel Kaká searching for the words to continue, and is surprised when, “But it’s not quite like what you think it is,” and he wants to ask what that means but can’t as Sami comes over, drags him to the group, Cris on his heels, slipping on a chair next to Kaká, who greets him with a huge smile, shoves his half glass of water to the animated man next to him.

 

He knows that this has drug on too long, that he’s not the only one suffering for it, that his career his, his friends are, that Sami is. But, he can’t...he can’t...and....

 

...he splashes water on his face, bitingly cold, watches as blood rushes back up to his cheeks, water drips off his face, hair plastered to his forehead, palms pressed flat on the rim of the porcelain sink.

 

He finally shakes his head because he’s not there, not focused and he doesn’t know what’s wrong. He’s trying and it’s not working and he bites back a scream of frustration because everything’s a mess and they don’t tell you about that when you’re growing up (“You’re still growing up,” Sami tells him after he sleepily confides in him. Maybe he’s right.), that there’s more than just football and whether or not you’re playing.

 

There’s feelings and heart and not knowing if you’re doing the right thing, if you’re on the right path, and constantly fumbling in the dark for the answers that you don’t even know are there. But you pray to God that they are because you can’t go on like this.

 

And the, “Mesut! We’re going to be late! Hurry up!” makes him open his eyes, stare at his dripping face in the mirror once more, and he wants to know why he said he’d go to this stupid party (because everyone’s going).

 

They arrive late and Sami apologizes on their behalf, says that Mesut had taken way too long in the bathroom, “Like the pretty boy he is,” but he says it affectionately and he just rolls his eyes in response and Sergio drags him over to the TV where everyone’s piled on two couches, overflowing and spilling off the sides, leaning up against the sides and sprawled on the floor. Just like school boy slumber parties because none of them have really grown up, have they?

 

Benz shoves a controller into his hands and their eyes meet for a moment and all of a sudden he feels sick because he knows that he hasn’t lived up to the promise that he made, but Benz nods and he gives a tight smile before letting it stretch as he sees who else has one in their hands and calls out, “What’re we playing?!” which comes too late as the game’s started and his Mario Kart is still behind the black and white checkered start line.

 

He’s coming out of the bathroom when Cris finally corners him (he’s been dodging him all night, wanting to keep the splinters that are still laying amongst his ribs the size that they are and not break them down smaller) and he does his best to dodge, move, pass by but Cris is bigger, bulkier, towers over him a bit and he can’t see Sami over his shoulder and goes for staring at the stitching on the logo on Cris’s shirt instead.

 

Neither of them say anything and he wants to know what this is about but doesn’t want to ask because he’s getting sick of this and then Cris’s hand is under his chin, forcing his eyes up and he lifts them, reluctantly, and all he sees is confusion and instead of being on guard he’s confused too because Cris is always in charge, always certain. Always.

 

(But not now.)

 

Cris opens his mouth, starts, looks back over his shoulder when there’s a cumulative yell of success, echoed by groans of disappointment and shakes his head, pushes him back into the bathroom and locks the door.

 

“What?” he finally asks because all his emotions are swelling up in his throat and he doesn’t know what to do with them all and it’s getting painful.

 

“What?” Cris asks, confused and he’s got crazy eyes, bright and shiny and Mesut wonders if those are tears but tries to convince himself that he doesn’t give a fuck, and instead barrels on, “Yeah, what?”

 

There’s a pause and he decides to give Cris to the count of thirty before pushing past and going back out but at twenty three Cris clears his throat, starts and then shakes his head, just spits out the words, “You need help.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because everyone loves Mesut.

 

“He said what?” Sami asks through a burst of laughter and Mesut wants to play feeling hurt but can’t because he smiles as well and repeats.

“That I need help,” and Sami goes into another bout of loud laughter and it makes him smile even wider.

“Oh God, but do you ever,” Sami says and laughs when Mesut punches his shoulder, “If Cris has finally noticed, Mesut, you really do,” and it’s half in jest, half in truth and he sobers up, nods.

“No, I know. But,” he adds, “It wasn’t about...” and he doesn’t know how to explain, describe, whatever it is, but Sami gets it, so he just moves on, “It was about football. So,” and he stops and Sami lets out a frustrated breath.

“So you guys are practicing, am I right?” and Mesut doesn’t say anything, just nods. 

The car’s quiet and things are tense and he figures he shouldn’t have said anything because Sami’s face is pensive and there’s a crease in his forehead. He knows that the drive’s only supposed to be a few more minutes longer, but it ends up feeling like it’s hours, the minutes stretched out to look like more than they really are. 

They finally arrive and Sami sticks the car in park and they sit there. He sits staring at his hands, can’t force his eyes to look up and the silence is stifling. 

Finally Sami breaks it with a choked out, “You’re going to get hurt again, and I can’t...,” here he has to choke out the rest of his sentence, “I can’t deal with this anymore,” and all of a sudden Mesut’s the only one sitting in the car, still looking at his hands.

 

The next three weeks are spent with separate car rides, with doors closing as others open, with cold, tense meals that lead to lonely meals. 

But his practices go well, his moments with Cris on the pitch his favourite moments. Some days it’s late and they’re tired and it’s slow and quiet and stressful, and other days it’s loud and they play dirty, feet fighting each other for the ball, bodies crashing into each other and bruises blooming as they wash up. 

“What happened between you and Sami?” Cris finally asks after one of their extra practices. 

Mesut stops in the middle of drying his hair, stairs at the fibres of his towel, swallows and can feel Cris look at his back, the hairs standing up on the back of his neck.

“Nothing,” he says, hoping the towel muffles his voice enough so Cris can’t feel the hitch in his voice.

The towel’s ripped from his hands and he looks up through the damp ends up his hair that drag into his eyes up at Cris, shirtless, holding the soggy towel in his hands, and ‘you’re an idiot’ look on his face.

“Please don’t lie to me,” he asks and Mesut’s never heard that tone before, soft and slightly sad, hurt, and he can’t.

He sighs and looks back down at his hands, “We’re just....we’re arguing, I guess,” and he laughs drily because fuck, he doesn’t know what it is right now that they’re fighting about and they’ve never gone on this long without talking (words are sparse and it’s only when necessary. “Did you get groceries?” “Practice time was changed.” “Mou said black logoless shirts only, go change.”), and he feels as if part of him is missing. 

“You guess?” and he doesn’t know how to explain it to Cris, who moves, sits down next to him and he nods, shrugs.

“Yeah. We didn’t really have a falling out,” he admits, and this is the moment, this is when he has to acknowledge feelings and truths and he doesn’t know if he’s ready for it, but he dives right in because in life that’s what you do. 

“You didn’t?” and he has to laugh at the absolute confusion in Cris’s voice and he shakes his head.

“No, we didn’t,” and he pauses, knows that this is where he plunges himself in and continues, “We more had a...a disagreement and Sami decided that he couldn’t support what I was doing,” and Cris tries to interrupt, but he cuts him off, “and I can’t blame him,” and looks at Cris, tilts his head and smiles ruefully, “I really can’t. I would have done it sooner if I was him. He’s got a lot more patience than I do.”

“That’s not true,” Cris moves to say but he shakes his head.

“No, it is and I know that. I’m lucky that Sami was willing to stick with me and the...situation for as long as he did. In his way,” he ponders, “I guess he’s still being my friend, if that makes any sense,” and it’s quiet for a few moments, and Cris is looking at him, searching his eyes, and he finally has to drop them to the tiled floor.

“What was the ‘situation’ that you guys weren’t agreeing on?” Cris asks, and of course he gets straight to the heart of the matter.

Here Mesut has to swallow, bites his lip and finally looks up after a moment, a pause, and now he knows this is either where he sinks or, “You,” or where he manages to make it to shore and survive. 

“What’re you so happy about, pretty boy?” Sergio asks him the next day during practice, eyes watching him walk by from his spot on the bench where he’s tying up his cleats.

“Nothing. Just happy,” he replies through a large smile as he makes his way to the locker. 

“Nobody’s happy for no reason,” Marcelo tosses in and Mesut rolls his eyes as he grabs the hem of his shirt and pulls it over his head.

“People can be happy for all sorts of reason. And just because is definitely a reason,” he points out as he tosses his shirt into his locker and grabs his practice jersey.

“That’s bullshit!” Sergio calls out as he fits his headband around the top part of his head, “The only reason a man is ever happy is because he’s getting laid on a regular basis,” he says seriously as the room erupts in laughter.

“It’s true!” he defends, “Or,” he adds as he walks up to Mesut, squints his eyes at him, as if trying to study him, “if he’s suddenly getting laid after a dry spell.”

“Did your mother teach you that?” Cris asks as he walks in, smacks Sergio in the back of the head with his bag as he makes his way to his locker and Mesut turns back to face his locker, sticks his arms through his practice jersey, hides his smile. 

Sergio rubs the spot on the back of his head, looks over at Cris, mock hurt on his face as he asks, “What? You don’t agree?” which is followed by catcalls and Iker claps a hand on Cris’s shoulder as he makes his way to the door.

“He does have a point, you know,” and he dances out of the way as Cris lunges for him and Sergio high fives him as they make their way out of their day. 

Mesut looks up, grin plastered on his face, and his eyes collide with Sami’s, dark and sad, who turns back to his locker, closes it and jogs out, Mesut staring at his back until Cris comes up, fills his eye space, all crooked smile and dancing eyes and he can’t help but smile in return.

 

It’s not for another week until Mou pulls him aside, tells him he’s impressed with the improvements he’s been seeing, says he’ll start the next game, and he doesn’t think his feet are touching the ground anymore.

“Did we do it?” Cris asks as he gets into the locker room and he doesn’t know why he asked because the corners of his cheeks are touching the corners of his eyes, but he nods and Cris swoops in for a hug. Tight and close and Mesut can smell the body wash on his skin, and smiles into his shoulder.

Cris pulls back, ducks his head the two inches, slips his hand up the back of Mesut’s head, cups it, “I knew you could do it,” and he feels his grin stretch and suddenly he’s kissing him and it’s tongue and teeth and he sighs when Cris sucks on his bottom lip and he pulls away before he gets too dizzy.

“I need to go shower,” he mutters and Cris nods, leans in one more time and then pushing him off, “Go or else I’ll need another one,” and Mesut laughs, freely and happily. 

“I heard you’re starting next game,” Sami says later. They’re both in the living room, he’s on the couch reading a sports magazine and Sami’s been playing FIFA 2011 for the last hour, but without any real enthusiasm behind it.

He looks up, eyes just over the top of the glossy pages. Sami hasn’t said anything to him in five days and he wondered if he even remembered what his voice sounded like.

“Yeah, I am,” and it’s quiet again and he goes back to reading, but his eyes dart back and forth between the pages and Sami, who’s now just looking at the controllers and he wants to say something but can’t remember how to start a conversation with his best friend, so he’s filled with guilty relief when his phone goes off and even more so when Cris pulls up ten minutes later.

“How are you guys still not talking? He’s your best friend!” Cris asks as they lay in the middle of the pitch, chests rising and falling rapidly.

“I don’t know, I don’t know,” he answers honestly, fingers pulling at the grass under his hands.

There’s a pause and he can feel Cris roll from his back to his side and he turns his head to the left and looks as Cris props himself up on his shoulder, head resting on his palm. There’s a question waiting to be asked and he knows he’s not going to like it when it is.

“Have you told him?” and that’s the kicker because he wants to. He wants to so badly. He wants to tell Sami that he doesn’t have to worry anymore. That he’s fine and Cris is fine and that _they’re_ fine and that he wants them to be fine. But he knows that telling him about Cris will just make Sami give him that look, the one that looks like maybe it’s happy, but it’s mostly still worried and tired and he doesn’t want to see that look. Not from Sami.

The pause is so long, so heavy that Cris just nods his head, flops back onto his back, stares at the sky.

“I see.”

“It’s not like that,” Mesut tries and Cris laughs and it takes him a moment for him to realize that it’s not a barked, hurt laugh, or a terse laugh or anything other than just a _laugh_. 

“I know it’s not about me,” Cris says and it’s his turn to laugh and Cris pokes him in the ribs. “Hey.”

“I thought everything was about you,” he teases and Cris growls, leans over and rolls him over, lands on top.

“Not when I’m with you it’s not,” and Mesut loses his breathe for a moment and lifts his head up, kisses Cris, slow and long and Cris moves his hand from his arm up to his face and slides his fingers up, grips the ends of his hair.

His hands move up under his shirt, feel the muscles lined up over his hips, bunched and moving on either side of his spine, his nails biting into the skin when Cris bites his lip, sucks on it, trails down to where his jaw meets his throat, and bites right at the juncture. 

“You’re going to leave marks,” Cris jokes, breathlessly and he opens his eyes up to the starry sky and looks down at the glowing eyes raised above his chin.

“Do you mind?” and his voice comes out low and breathless and Cris smiles, wicked and devious and he gets his answer, other hand coming up to bring his face back down to his own.

 

He gets home and it’s late and he figures Sami’s asleep because, fuck, it’s really late and he and Cris just really distracted and he smiles into the darkness.

“So, you’re back,” and he jumps about four feet in the air and Sami’s in the kitchen, in the dark, so he reaches over and flicks the light on, confused and the time on the stove’s clock clearly states that it’s two thirty. 

“What are you doing up?” he asks, kicking off his shoes and placing them on the rack before shuffling into the kitchen, leaning against the door jam, arms crossed.

It’s been weeks since they’ve had any sort of conversation and now Sami’s talked to him twice in a day. He doesn’t know how to feel and the bruises he’s hiding on his neck with his jacket collar are pushing him towards feeling guilty.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Sami answers but Mesut can tell he’s pissed, there’s something else but he doesn’t know if he wants to know, and feels bad about it because, more than anything, Sami’s his friend. There for him til the end, forever and ever, and...

“What’s wrong?” slips out and he tries to grasp them back but they’re out there and the cup stops just before Sami’s mouth and their eyes lock and then Sami just knows. 

He takes a sip and then places the cup in the sink, nods to himself and looks at Mesut with a wry smile on his face, all sad and sarcastic and, maybe, lonely, “So, I guess everything worked out for you, didn’t it?” and Mesut doesn’t know how to answer to that because it’s not in a tone he’s ever associated with Sami before so he just swallows, bites his lip and nods.

“Yeah, I guess it did,” he agrees, but it kills him because Sami’s face breaks, just a little bit, and he moves towards but Sami dodges it.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” he says and slips out of the kitchen, and then pops back in, toes the carpet for a moment, looks as if he’s deciding on something, nods to himself before his head swings up, and his voice cracks, “I’m really happy for you,” and then disappears down the hallway. 

 

They have the day off and Cris has kidnapped him from the house and they’re out. 

(“We’re going where?” he asks as he pulls his shirt on, gets his arm stuck in the head hole with his arm and Cris laughs as he helps straighten him all out.

“What would you do without me?” he asks and Mesut laughs.

“I’d be a lot saner,” he teases and Cris just rolls his eyes and moves into his space and Mesut raises his eyebrows.

“Really? On our way out? Really?” and Cris just grins devilishly and shrugs.

“What can I say?” he whispers, his voice hoarse, “I can’t resist you,” he says as he pushes his hips flush with Mesut’s and smiles when he hears breathe hiss out between clenched teeth.

“You have no shame,” Mesut spits out as Cris drags his hands up his sides, back down again, lifts the corner of his shirt, thumbs teasing the skin just over his boyfriend’s hipbones and leans in, kisses the corner of Mesut’s mouth and...

“So, should we get going?” he asks gaily as he pulls away, winks and Mesut rolls his eyes even as he groans in frustration and grabs his hoodie.

“Where are we even going?” he asks again as they head out and he pushes his shoes onto his feet, kneels down to tie them up.

“We’re just going out,” Cris tells him and Mesut can hear the smile in his voice. “We’re going to go out and walk and just...be,” and Mesut has to admit that that sounds perfect.) 

 

 

It’s warm and the sun’s out and Mesut admits he really hasn’t been out and Cris stops in the middle of the street, “Really? Jesus Mesut, you really are slow,” and laughs at the hurt look Mesut drops onto his face. 

“I’ll show you it all,” and Mesut bursts out laughing because it’s so painfully cheesy but he loves it. He really loves it.

So Cris walks him to his favourite record store and Mesut’s face is beautiful and Cris leans in and places a kiss under his ear as he whispers, “I figured you’d love it,” and they stay for hours and Mesut picks through all the music before Cris finally drags him out by his jacket collar and leads him to a grocery store where he picks up bread, cheese, meat, fruit, water, and Mesut looks on questioningly but Cris just shakes his head, smiles.

He leads them to a park and Mesut grins at how absolutely ridiculous it is but can’t deny that he loves it and sits down next to Cris, legs spread out before him and grabs a grape from the bunch.

“I didn’t know you were such a romantic,” Mesut teases and Cris winks.

“You have no idea,” and catches the grape thrown at him, sticks it in his mouth cheekily. 

They eat in silence and watch as kids run back and forth and then, Cris says, “He loves you, you know.” 

He chokes on his grape and shoots a look at Cris and grabs a swig of water before asking, “Who does?” because this can definitely not be Cristiano Ronaldo saying he loves him because....no.

“Sami does,” Cris says, slowly, carefully, as if he’s slow and needs things spelled out for him and maybe he does because...

“Sami?” he asks, clarifies, lets it sink in and asks again, “Sami?” as if there’s someone else that that could possibly mean and Cris nods and he can tell that he’s not looking at him, but over his shoulder and he focuses on the grapes, the stems and they blur together eventually.

“We’re just friends,” he finally explains and Cris laughs and shakes his head.

“You’re so absolutely clueless, it’s adorable,” and normally he would play it off and roll his eyes or wink or move in all close and personal but right now he can’t because...

“Fuck, that’s why he was all pissed off about....fuck,” and Cris is nodding along and he feels like an idiot because if Cris knows who else does and how did he not?

“Mesut,” and his eyes dart up to Cris’s and he knows he can read all the confusion and fear and is grateful he’s there.

“What do I do?” he asks and he knows that, for once, Cris has no answers.

 

Cris drops him off and smiles, kisses him before he leaves, whispers, “Good luck,” and he smiles because, god. How did he get so lucky?

He doesn’t sleep, not really, instead dozes fitfully and nightmares that Sami’s falling and he tries to grab him but can’t because Cris keeps holding him back and watches as Sami’s forever disappearing, forever falling, but never falling out of view and  he wakes up when he crashes onto the floor, blanket tangled around his waist, shirt soaked through with sweat.

 

Now that he knows, he can’t push it from his mind and now things are making sense and falling into place and he feels like such an idiot for not seeing it, for being so blind, for needing his boyfriend (he smiles on the word, the word that fits Cris and, he loves it, smiles even wider) to be the one to point it out (and here his smile crashes). 

It’s been two months. Two months since he and Sami have had a proper, full fledged conversation. Since Sami’s balanced himself on his aching muscles or moved his legs and sat down on the couch. Since they’ve tossed the football in the house, both crying, “Ooh!” as it heads towards some appliance or another, but never stopping until it rolls down the stairs and they’re too lazy to go grab it. Two. Months. And it’s not until now that he’s realized that he’s got a Sami sized hole in his heart and he really needs it to be fixed.

Sami’s in the kitchen when he walks in (he’s practiced in the mirror for the last half hour and yet still doesn’t know what he’s going to say) and he doesn’t look up and he wasn’t expecting it to be easy, but fuck, he didn’t figure that it would be this hard. 

He stands there for a minute and then bites the bullet and for the second time plunges in, but this time....this time the chance of drowning seems to be so much higher and what’s at risk is so much more than with Cris. 

“Sami,” and it comes out small and kind of like a question and it’s ridiculous because it’s _Sami_ and he wants this to just be a nightmare and he’ll wake up and he’ll tell Sami about it and they’ll laugh and he’ll cook them eggs but he pinches himself, again, and he’s not waking up.

 

“Are you still mad at me?” and it bursts from his mouth and he’s sure that he had something a lot more....eloquent planned out but it works and Sami turns around with a confused, dazed look on his face and he figures he might as well dive right in, all or nothing and rushes on, “It’s just that we haven’t talked and you’ve been kind of...I don’t know and I just...I just wanted to know that we’re not....that we’re cool,” and it’s the worst thing he’s ever heard and he wants to know when he’s turned into a high school girl and winces at how absolutely terrible this is going.

Sami just looks at him, the confused look still gracing his face and then shrugs because he’s Sami and Mesut wants to melt into the linoleum because he doesn’t know what it means and his brain’s in no space to figure out what the shrug means and then Sami answers for him because he knows what he’s thinking, always, and, “Would you grab a plate already? I don’t know what you’re getting all drama queen, high school girl like over there for,” and he doesn’t know how he didn’t drown for a second time but he sends a prayer of thanks and grabs a plate and hadn’t realized how much he’s missed all this until just now. 

And he thinks the same thing when he’s sprawled out on the couch and Sami’s picked his feet up and places them on his lap and they’re watching TV but for the first time in so long it’s not for a buffer but because they want to and they start predicting the future of each character and he smiles because he really has. He’s missed it. 


	4. Chapter 4

“Mesut! You’re smiling again! What lucky lady made you lucky?” Sergio calls out and this time Sami whacks him in the back of the head with his duffel bag and he adds, “Eh! You guys need to watch out with those things! They hurt!” and the locker room fills with barks of laughter.  
“We’re sure she feels she’s lucky,” Iker calls out with a wink as he makes his way out, Sergio sputtering as his headband dangles from his fingers.  
“He says something and nothing happens to him. Me? I say what everyone’s thinking and I get whacked. I see how it is. Thanks guys,” he pouts as he makes his way out and Iker laughs as he tugs his friend in and snaps his headband over his forehead as they make their way out, Sergio’s cries of protest echoing back into the locker room.  
“So you guys made up?” Cris asks, breathe warm on the back of his neck and Mesut leans back into it, just a fraction.  
“Yeah, we did,” he answers as his gaze slides across the row of lockers to Sami, who looks up, grins and throws a wink before going back to rummaging in his back while talking to Benz.   
“I hope that was just making up and not making out,” Cris teases and he rolls his eyes.  
“You’re ridiculous.”  
“Only about you,” and he turns around in time to see Cris wink as he makes his way out of the locker room.  
He feels someone come to stand beside him as he ties his cleats and looks up into the somewhat pained face of Kaká.   
“Sit?” he asks and he does, a pause heavy for a few moments before Kaká speaks.  
“He loves you you know,” and Mesut’s heard a variation of that so many times in the last few weeks that he just laughs because he doesn’t know what else to do.  
Kaká smiles, kindly, “No, I’m serious. He does.”  
It slips before he gets a chance to think it over, “How do you know?” and it’s a little sarcastic and he winces at the way they sound but his friend (yes, friend) just laughs.  
“Because,” he answers, kindly, “that’s the same look he used to give me, back when...” and the sentence ends, but Mesut knows what he’s saying and he looks and his hands resting on his knees for a moment before looking back up into those kind eyes.  
“Thank you. That means a lot to me,” he says, smiles. “We’re okay?” and this is something he needs to know.  
Kaká nods, smile broadening, just a bit, “Yes, we’re okay. He....he loved me, but he needed you,” and Mesut doesn’t know if that makes any sense, and Kaká adds, “And he’s luckier than he knows right now. But he will. He will,” and gets up, leaving him wondering if anyone he knows will ever make sense at any point.   
But then Cris appears in the entrance to the empty locker room, his big crooked child like smile stretching his face, eyes all bright, and he calls out, “Are you coming?” and he laughs because he’s happy and he runs up and doesn’t stop until he’s in Cris’s space, flush up against him and slips his hands around his waist, taps his forehead to his.  
“Always for you,” and kisses him, teases his lip with his tongue and then slides it in and then smiles when he hears, feels, Cris sigh.  
Cris pulls back, a dorky smile on his face and says, “You’re always going to come for me, are you?” winks and Mesut groans as Cris leans in for another kiss and Mesut’s fingers curl into the fabric at the back of his jersey.   
“I’m holding you to that,” Cris tells him, waggling his eyebrows and leading him on to the pitch.

 

The first time he kissed Cristiano Ronaldo, it was pure magic. It was when he was sure the famous football player was going to look at him in disgust and let him drown. When he was sure he’d have to crawl back to Sami in broken pieces and hope, pray, beg that his friend take him back because he was right, he’d always been right and Cris really was just toying with him.  
But, instead, the famous footballer with an ego as huge as an elephant, who put himself up on a (bit of a) pedestal, who winked at pretty girls on an hourly basis, rescued him. Pulled him out of the cold waters, towed him to dry land, and pushed oxygen back into his lungs.

“You,” Mesut says and hears static in his ears and can’t breathe and his vision goes fuzzy and then he hears Cris.  
“Are you listening to me, Mesut?” and his eyebrows are all up in his hairline and Mesut can just manage to shake his head.   
Cris laughs, “Figures. I always figured you were a bit of a fragile one,” then smiles when he feels himself being insulted, “There we go. Now you’re listening,” and Mesut wonders what he missed on.  
“As I was saying,” Cris says and all of a sudden he’s moving in to his space and he forgets how to breathe and Cris’s eyes are all he can see, and then his eyes dart down to his mouth and back up to his eyes and he thinks he knows what Cris was saying but doesn’t know for sure and hesitates. That’s when Cris clarifies things, moves in, presses up against him and for the first time Mesut sees those fireworks people talk about.  
He moans and feels Cris’s mouth curve in a smile against his and his hands make their up along his shirtless torso, too eager to feel it all to feel it all slowly. His short nails scrabble against the smooth, firm skin he finds there and Cris bites his lip and his nails dig into the skin right at his hip bones and Cris’s fingers wind themselves in the long shaggy hair, tug his head back a centimeter and his teeth nip at the corner of his mouth, the corner where his jaw and throat meet, down the tendon, and he swallows when Cris’s mouth finds his collar bone, sucks a mark onto it.  
“I’ve been wanting to do that for so long,” Cris whispers out, voice husky and honest and raw and Mesut doesn’t know what to say so he goes for the truth.  
“I’ve wanted you to want that for so long,” and it’s cheesy and ridiculous but that’s how he feels and Cris swallows, nods, and leans back in.

 

So they are: they’re cheesy and Cris surprises him with flowers and makes him raise his eyebrows and he puts them in the sink, where Cris rescues them and sticks them in a vase while Sami watches from his spot on the couch or from the kitchen where he’s perched on the counter, waiting for the water to boil.   
And they take Sami out, which Mesut thinks is going to be the most awkward thing ever but it turns out it’s not because he’s Mesut’s best friend and Cris has this ridiculous thing with wanting to get to know the important people in his life and Mesut wonders if he’ll ever stop doing things that make him roll his eyes or raise his eyebrows but he highly doubts it and he’s really quite okay with that because he loves it.  
He loves it, and he loves Cris, even with his drama queen moments on the pitch, and in the bathroom, and in the bedroom. He allows himself to be dragged to the mall and to the stores for hours on end, to tell Cris whether or not something works for him (he’s never told him something hasn’t) and ends up pushed up against the changing room wall at some point, normally by a shirtless Cris with a devilish look in his eye and if he didn’t anticipate it so much he’d probably tell him to at least pretend like he knows how to be decent.

 

In the end: they’re happy and it’s kind of like a fairytale, except that one night when he stormed out of Cris’s place and Sami told him they had to talk because that’s what you do in relationships, at least the ones that work out, all while balancing on his stomach. Or that other day when Cris got up and walked out of a restaurant because Mesut was too friendly with the waiter and Mesut walked all the way to his place and banged on his door for fifteen minutes before Cris told him he was going to wake up Baby Cris if he didn’t shut the fuck up and that’s when Mesut stepped forward and pressed him up against the side of the house and told him he was going to be the one to wake the baby and they barely made it to the bedroom.

And really: they’re happy. They’re happy and that’s all they ever really wanted.


End file.
